The Chance
by bauerfreak
Summary: Nick is called to a crime scene and comes across a suspicious boy.  Will Nick just prosecute him, or could he really help this kid?  Title may change.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: So, I'm back with another fic, but this one's different! Number one, one of the main characters is a teenage BOY!! I haven't done that before. And secondly, it's not my idea! Hahaha. One of my readers contacted me about writing his idea for a fic, so I thought I'd give it a shot. So this is Cole's idea. He's not a member, but he's a fan. Please enjoy and review._

The phone rang loudly on Nick Stokes' nightstand, disturbing the young CSI into the land of the living. He winced and groaned at the sound. After having just worked a double, he was not exactly thrilled that the device was disturbing his slumber. Or more accurately, whoever the hell was on the other line. If it was another telemarketer, he was going to give them a piece of his mind. If it was Grissom, he wasn't going to quit his job. Well, maybe that would go a little too far. He'd curse his boss in his mind, and that's what he'd have to settle for.

Nick stretched his arm out to pick up the cordless phone, clicked talk, and rubbed at his face tiredly.

"Stokes."

"Hey, Nick. It's Grissom." Nick began cursing him right off that bat in his head. However, he had so much respect for the man, and viewed him as a sort of mentor. He could never disrespect Grissom. But he could be annoyed with him.

"Griss, I just got to sleep. Can this wait?" Nick immediately asked as he glanced at his alarm clock through his half-closed eyelids. It read 11:03 in the morning. His sleep time.

"I'm afraid not, Nick." He told his coworker, but didn't sound too concerned. With Grissom, it was all-business. The man could care less, he was sure, if he lost a night of sleep. Maybe he thought the entire team could operate like him, and be able to suppress his emotions at a crime scene. Nick got so exhausted sometimes because he did connect with the victims a lot, and that could get really emotionally draining. Hence, his need at the moment for sleep. It was the second time in two days that he'd been called in. "We've got several double-homicides that day shift is already busy on. I really need your help on a robbery call on Eighteenth Street."

Nick scrubbed his hand over his face. "Can't Warrick come in?" He turned his bedside lamp on, already knowing the answer to that and covered his eyes from the blinding light.

"His grandmother died. He's out of town." Grissom explained, looking around in the night at his own crime scene. "So, are you gonna help?"

Nick sighed. Did he really have an option? "Yeah, Griss. I'll be there." He clicked his phone off, not waiting for a response, and tossed it to the middle of his nice, warm bed. It would now be empty for a good while longer. Nick just hoped there wasn't too much to the scene. Hopefully, he could just collect the evidence, talk to the family, fill out the paperwork, and then save the rest for later.

The CSI flipped on the light to his bathroom and winced his eyes again at the brightness. He bent down and splashed some water of his face, then gently used a towel to wipe it off. Staring at himself in the mirror, he couldn't help but wonder if this was how he was supposed to live his life forever. A bachelor, working all hours of the day and night, coming home to an empty apartment. Of course Grissom called him, because he knew Nick didn't have anything better to do other than sleep. No wife or kids; not even a girlfriend right now. Nobody wanted to be alone for the rest of his life, and pushing forty, Nick was beginning to think that's how he was meant to live. Alone.

CSI CSI CSI CSI CSI

Fifteen minutes later, Nick arrived at the scene on Eighteenth Street. The cops were already there, of course, with all their lights going, disturbing the rest of the neighborhood. It never ceased to amaze Nick, people's fascination with crime scenes and dead bodies. Someone got murdered? Let's go see if we can see the body! Nick shook his head at the crowd gathered behind the yellow tape, feeling cynical this morning. Get a life people, he wanted to say to them, but then he realized he'd be a hypocrite if he said that.

He walked over with his case to Detective Brass, who appeared to have written down some notes while he talked to the victim's wife. Brass saw Nick arrived, and wrapped up the question he was posing to the distraught woman. Eighteenth Street was not known to be a premier area of Las Vegas. The woman looked to be wearing older clothes, her haircut cheap and her roots showing about halfway down her head. One look at her house, and he already knew. Drugs. The punks were after drugs. Nick eavesdropped a bit on their conversation.

"He always told me not to worry." The woman struggled not to break down. "He said he had everything under control and knew what he was doing. Obviously, he got in over his head." She gestured towards the house, and all the circus of the police and investigators.

Brass thanked the woman and led her to sit down on the back of the ambulance until they figured out what to do. Then, Jim walked closer to Nick to share a few words about the investigation so far.

"Drug pick up gone bad." Brass informed him as both men looked off towards the house. "Wife said it was a group of teenage boys mostly. She was in the bedroom, and fled out the window when she heard gunshots. Police got one of the kids, but the other three managed to get away. The wife is gonna try to give descriptions and meet with a sketch artist."

Nick nodded in understanding and bit back a yawn. What was wrong with kids these days, honestly? Too many video games, no honest work. He bet they thought they could get away like the characters in Grand Theft Auto or one of many Hollywood movies. Little punks.

"Where's the body?" Nick already had his latex gloves ready, dangling one in his left hand so he could put it on his right.

"Living room. Watch your step, it's a bit of a dump." Brass warned him. Nick heeded his advice and entered the property with caution. He was always a little jumpy now entering a scene after all that had happened to him and his coworkers. Las Vegas was a dangerous town, and not one that he'd ever want to raise kids in.

He soon came across the body. A man in his fifties with salt and pepper hair that appeared a bit greasy, laying in a pool of his own blood in his boxers and a wife-beater top. Nick sighed and knelt down next to him and the pool of blood. He'd seen guys like this dozens of times. Men not exactly in their prime, working at places like the tire store or the gas station, wanting to get into some extra cash. And that extra cash had just cost him his life. Nick shook his head and began collecting evidence from the body.

Nick did his normal routine throughout the house, looking for clues. He checked for shoeprints, and anything the kids may have touched for fingerprints. Teenagers were usually easier to catch because they were scared and sloppy. They were all probably just biting their nails now, remembering that they'd taken that can of beer from the fridge, downed it, and left it on the kitchen counter. Or that part of their baggy, beat up jean cuffs had torn off in the living room, another piece of evidence that Nick bagged and collected. One idiot left a cigarette right on the coffee table. Nick was certain he was going to get all of them. But putting away kids never gave him the satisfaction of putting away an adult counterpart. Poor kids were probably the victim of bad parenting, a hard-knock education, and the anger of living in poverty and crime. Nick wished he could knock some sense into some of them, and tell them this was not the way they had to live their lives. This was the easy way out, a life of crime. Hard work would pay off, if they gave it an honest try.

Several hours later, Nick had finally finished his analyzing of the crime scene, so he exited the house with his case in hand, ready to hit the sack once again, and this time for good. It would be some of the best sleep he ever had. He grunted slightly as he lifted his case into the back of his Denali, and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. Just as he closed the door, he turned to his left to walk to the driver's seat, when he saw a kid, about fifteen years old, he would guess, staring at him from behind a van across the street. Nick narrowed his eyes, and couldn't help but notice the kid staring guiltily at him. He'd seen that look a thousand times, on those criminals who just couldn't hide the fact they'd done something horribly wrong, and Nick had just presented them with undeniable evidence. In a few words, he looked like trouble.

"Hey!" Nick called to him, motioning for him to come over. Maybe he'd seen something, and was only now returning to the scene to give his recount of the events. "Come here, I need to talk to you."

The kid seemed to stand up straighter, and Nick caught only a millisecond's view of his full figure before he started running – about his height, with messy brown hair, baggy jeans, and probably a troubled past. He wasn't skinny, but not exactly muscular – just an average teen who probably liked to work out a bit to impress the ladies.

Nick cursed under his breath, out of energy, but he knew he needed to catch up to this kid. Obviously, he knew something, or was involved in some way.

"Hey!" Nick called after him again, running at full speed towards him. The boy must know this area well, because he darted and ducked around the trees and houses expertly. "Las Vegas Police! Stop right there!"

There had been a uniformed officer back at the scene inside, but no one had been around to help Nick with his pursuit. Nick managed to chase him for a good two blocks, before he lost him within the old homes, abandoned old cars, and oak trees. He slowed to a jog, and then a walk, and finally stopped, leaning forward onto his thighs with his hands.

"Son of a bitch." Nick muttered, trying to catch his breath. He knew this kid was important to the case, if not a main suspect. Nick decided he would need to file another report about this, and compare his description of the boy with the victim's wife's account. Then they could put a watch out for this kid and hopefully track him down.

The victim was his main priority in this, but as Nick drove off to the CSI headquarters, he couldn't stop himself thinking about the boy. He'd likely come from a bad home, maybe even a single mom raising him, and got in with a bad crowd. Nick wondered when he'd turned down the wrong path. When had his mother stopped recognizing him as that sweet kid who likely used to bring her dandelions from her own garden, and who watched Barney on television? Now that kid was gone, and he was a criminal, most likely. But Nick couldn't help but wonder, could that kid turn himself around? Was he hopeless and truly a criminal, or was there a tiny little sliver of goodness inside him? Maybe he wanted to fess up and get himself help. He'd ventured back to the crime scene, after all.

Nick sighed and ran a hand through his brown hair as he sat at a red light.

"It's just a case, Nick. Get a hold of yourself." He instructed himself in the rearview mirror. But he couldn't shake it off. There was something about that kid that made him want to find out more. Could he help this kid? It wasn't his job, but was it his duty?


	2. Chapter 2

The next day, after managing to catch at least some minute amount of sleep, Nick Stokes arrived at the CSI headquarters, ready for work. Well, maybe physically ready, but mentally, he was shot. Already, he could tell this was going to be one of those long, painfully tedious shifts. His brain wasn't working at full function, mostly because he just couldn't shake the thought of that kid at the crime scene out of his mind. Nick figured he must be losing it. Perhaps a side effect of becoming older; the fact that he'd never had kids; why was he so concerned about the punk? He'd seen dozens, if not hundreds of low-life teenagers over the years, and all they'd ever done was annoy him and irritate the hell out of him. Heck, he'd even punched one last year in a moment of weakness (and it felt damn good).

Sure, in the past he'd been known for empathizing with the victims, but in this case, the kid may even be the suspect. He wasn't supposed to be feeling sorry for punks who caused others problems, but for some reason he was. There was just something about that kid. Something he wanted to find out more about, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

After paying his normal visit to the locker room to get ready for shift, Nick made his way to Grissom's office to find out what his assignment would be for the evening, when he heard a bit of a scuffle at the other end of the hallway. Figuring it was another out of hand insane criminal, he moved over to the side to let them all pass. Sighing, he turned his head to catch a glimpse of the no doubt hardened delinquent. However, he had to do a double take when he recognized the face. It was the kid from the crime scene yesterday, and it looked like he'd had a very tough night. The teen caught a quick glimpse of Nick in between his scuffling with the police officer, trying to relieve the ache the handcuffs were causing.

"Jesus, man! It's not like I'm gonna try to run!" He argued with one of the uniforms as they led him back to one of the holding rooms, since he was a minor. Usually, they didn't really handcuff kids unless they were perceived as a threat, or out of control. The way the kid was jumbling around and causing a ruckus, he wasn't doing much good for his case. He was visibly drunk, slurring his words and stumbling all over his feet. His eyes were as glazed as doughnuts.

Nick shook his head at his comment, because that's what he'd done last night when he'd tried to confront him. He bet the boy had been running from something all his life. The officers ignored his protests and continued to lead him down the hall. Though Nick knew it wasn't quite his business, he felt he had some stock in this one. After all, he had run from his crime scene last night, so he was sure Grissom would let him interrogate the kid a little. He followed several paces behind the group, and then disappeared into the viewing room next to where the kid would be questioned. Narrowing his eyes, Nick watched them un-cuff him, and guide him to sit in one of the cold, hard chairs, designed specifically to make people like that boy squirm.

Nick just studied the kid for a few moments, as the uniforms left the room to let him sit and think for a while before they came to give him a breathalyzer test. His punk clothes were wrinkled and rumpled like he'd been wearing them for days. He was a cliché bad-news kid, his boxer shorts sticking out, and pants pulled down low, a punk-rock t-shirt, and messy 'do. His hair was scruffy and greasy, and Nick wondered how much gunk he had under those fingernails of his. Breathing out in disappointment in part of the teenage race, Nick headed for the door to hopefully catch the arresting officer in the hallway. Nick soon spotted the man, filling out the remainder of his report.

"Hey, man. I'm pretty sure that's the kid who ran from me last night at my crime scene. What can you tell me about him?" He asked softly. The officer took a little step back and Nick matched it, so they could have some more privacy.

"That kid has been one of my worst nightmares for years now. Orphan. Runs away from most foster homes he gets placed in, so the system can't really keep track of him."

"So, he gets up to no good?"

The uniform sighs. "Most of the time, I get calls that he's disturbing people, causing a ruckus. But he's stolen food from convenience stores. Tonight, he was picked up for public intoxication when he tried to buy more alcohol. He had money because he'd stolen someone's wallet."

"Why isn't he in Juvy?" Nick wondered, after hearing all the trouble he'd gotten himself into.

"He's done brief stints. It's just petty theft, mostly, so he can't stay long enough to do him any good."

Nick nods and crosses his arms. That might be a good thing, considering the type of kids who spent long amounts of time in Juvy. Something told Nick that this kid wasn't bad at heart – he was a good kid who'd taken some wrong turns, had no guidance, and was just trying to survive on the streets. "What's his name?"

"Jake. Jake Matthews. Fifteen years old."

"Mind if I have a word with him?" Nick requested, hoping to get into this kid's head, if not for the sake of justice, to find out what made this kid tick. At the very least, Nick hoped to make him squirm, to sway him from getting into more trouble. The kid needed a role model.

"Be my guest." The officer gestured freely to the door, welcoming any help he could get with this Jake Matthews. He'd been breathing down this kid's neck since he was eleven years old.

Nick thanked him then cleared his throat as he approached the door, thinking about how he was going to approach this. He grabbed a notebook and pen in case it was needed. Teenagers were usually a piece of cake to interrogate. They were always so scared, it would only take Nick a few minutes to break them, and get the whole story. Nick suspected this kid wouldn't be so easy, and his suspicions were further confirmed when he walked in to find Jake looking comfortable, his feet up on the table.

He closed the door firmly, and looked at the boy suspiciously. Jake looked up at him and narrowed his eyes for a moment, then turned his attention back to his Puma shoes. He recognized him from the night before – the man who foolishly tried to race after him. Nick decided not to say anything about his feet on the table, because he knew he needed to earn this kid's respect to get through to him.

"Jake Matthews." Nick stated, as if by knowing his name he knew the story of his life, letting the pad of paper slap down on the table. Jake showed no visible reaction, used to this sort of approach. The good cop who wanted to reach him, and change his evil ways, but none of them truly understood him. All they were concerned with was getting him Juvy time for his wrongdoings. None of them really cared about where he slept, where he got his next meal. Frankly, he was sick of pricks disguised as do-gooders, trying to shape him up. And Nick was just the latest; there was nothing special about it. The CSI pulled out his chair and sat down across from the disheveled teen.

"Why don't you tell me about your evening." Nick opened the discussion up to the teenager, hoping he would bite. After about ten seconds of silence, Nick nodded, realizing this wasn't going to be as easy as he hoped.

"Alright. Let me tell you what's gonna happen." Nick crossed his arms over his chest, leaned back, and eyed the boy. "That uniform could easily book you for public intoxication, underage drinking, theft, and now even non-cooperation with authorities. You wanna go back to Juvy?"

"Fuck if I care." He muttered.

Nick furrowed his eyebrows. This kid really did not care. Or was it all a front? He needed what all kids need – a stable, safe home, and regular meals. Not to mention anything of parents.

"You like being surrounded by low-life teenagers?" Nick asked.

Jake hated that kind of question. He hated when adults posed questions they already knew the answer to, just to make you answer and feel worse about yourself.

"Why don't you cut the crap? I know you don't give a fuck about me, and I don't give a fuck about you. So quit the bullshit and just book me because I couldn't care less."

Nick realized he was being a bit lame with the way he was going about questioning this kid. What did he really expect Jake to do? Roll over and thank him?

"Alright, Jake. Maybe Juvy doesn't seem so bad when you're livin' on the streets anyway. Am I right?"

Jake shrugged and just looked annoyed by Nick's presence.

"What I'm gonna do, is get you into a real good program to get you some help. Cause I hate to see a kid like you going through this cycle over and over again. You can break the cycle, and have a good life ahead of you."

Jake looked at Nick, and seemed to consider it for a few moments. Heck, it sounded great to him, but when was the last time he could actually trust an adult to come through for him? He honestly couldn't remember. And he wasn't going to get all soupy and excited over such an offer, when it was highly likely the plans would fall through.

After thinking about it for about five seconds, Jake breathed out almost a disgusted little sigh. He leaned forward and paused dramatically. "Fuck you."

Nick thought he had been perfectly patient, very understanding, and had treated Jake with the utmost respect. His attitude was really getting under his skin.

"Alright, fine." Nick told him, standing up hastily from his chair. "You can stay in lock up for the night. Maybe tomorrow you'll feel differently. Have a pleasant evening."

With that, Nick left the room, shutting the door calmly, yet firmly once again. Jake was left in the cold, dark interrogation room by himself – not an unfamiliar place to be. At least he would have a roof over his head tonight, and the promise of a meal ahead of him. He yawned and stretched, unaffected seemingly by Nick's little rant, but it did have him thinking. Many people had come to him similarly, hoping to sway him into becoming a good kid, offering him help if he would take it. But none of it would make him truly okay. He would never have a real family – no parents, and no siblings. Jake was a lonely island, and didn't see how going in some program would ever help that. No one truly cared about him, and knew that if he kept treating people the way he did, no one ever would.


End file.
